


recalibration (the rate of exchange of a memory for another)

by shikae (39smooth)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Change in Feelings, Drift Bond, Drift Compatibility, Flashbacks, Freeform, Heavy Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Musical Instruments, Mythology References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4261089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/39smooth/pseuds/shikae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pacific Rim!AU. But there is no time for love, in a time of war. Especially not when it is so fragile and easily torn away, through the hand of a monster ripping into steel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	recalibration (the rate of exchange of a memory for another)

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted may 2014, for criticalcapture.

Like the sound of a heavy hand or a birch stick against the taut skin of a _buk_ , the noise falls.

He allows himself to fall backwards, into the memories of ages ago, of arching voices and shuddering, gasping arias, the echo of a millenium reflected in the chant of the _sorikkun_ against nothing more than a single _sori-buk_ , spinning the wailing tale of youth and filial piety, churning out the humourous solemnity of the human soul.

It sharpens in pitch, spiralling upwards, spiralling, spiralling into a strange storm that latches onto his hands and drags him into the furor of the abrupt switch from one section to another, drags him into the whipping winds of the excited rhythm, a fast-paced breeze that sweeps at the soles of his feet and forces him into the steps marked by the _gayageum_ , the _janggu_ , the _daegeum_ that trills and expands and pierces the air in a long, drawn-out note.

It is not supposed to be this way, the jumping melodies that are leaping far too quickly to catch up, the incessant, furious plucking of the instruments, the harsh thumping that matches the ache behind his ribcage, the voices that sweep across the room, the voices _the voices the voices they are his voice they are all his_ _his his his_ —

There is a loud cry. His eyes snap open.

It has only been seconds, seconds, seconds.

“Ninety-six percent,” comes the smooth female voice of the overhead AI. Jongdae resurfaces, curls his fingers into the bands of the Pons headgear strapped to his temples for a brief second, and sucks in a deep breath, dropping his arms. This is here. This is now. This is no longer eleven years ago. “Ninety-six percent.”

The last threads of a desperate screaming act slip and twist away from his consciousness.

His throat feels dry, disconnected from the rest of him. It shouldn’t be. This is merely a regular simulation run. Simulation runs aren’t supposed to produce results like that. Simulation runs do not induce such strong responses.

Not between complete strangers.

He shakes off the hard bass thump of drums, and lets it fall back into his memory.

“Ninety-six percent,” breathes the man beside him. His hands curl into fists by his sides. Jongdae glances down, and he is mimicking the action. “That’s impossible.”

It is unexpected. It is unprecedented.

It could be impossible, but somehow, they have proven otherwise.

“The system is correct. Drift compatibility has synched at ninety-six percent, in just under seventeen seconds. This is an all new record.” The Neural Bridge Operator on duty flicks a switch on the dashboard. “Astounding.”

“Mark them down for the next step interview,” commands PPDC General Cho, gaze flickering between Jongdae and his Drift test partner. “Names?”

“Kim Jongdae,” he says, watching the stylus of the observing Jaeger Psych Analyst skate over a tablet, the familiar syllables of his name forming on the screen. They give him nothing but a once-over, and move on.

“Kim Joonmyun.”

The name resounds in his mind, familiar. Jongdae chances a glance across again; he reads of absolute perfectionism, with his Academy uniform immaculately pressed and worn, hair to standard regulation. Even the way he holds himself—shoulders raised and back straight—reminds Jongdae of the officers who preside over their training sessions.

“Your brother,” starts General Cho, her interest piqued now, “he is Kim Minseok, is he not? Currently with the PPDC as well?”

“Yes,” says Kim Joonmyun, “my entire immediate family is associated with the PPDC or the military in some way. And I wish to be so, as well.”

Military family. Jongdae should have guessed. He’s heard of Kim Minseok before, one of the PPDC’s best and most efficient Strike Troopers. Lieutenant colonel at the age of thirty-four. Jongdae’s not surprised that Kim Joonmyun would want to go into the same line of work as the rest of his kin.

“I look forward to seeing you serve with us.” General Cho motions for the Neural Bridge Operator to disengage them from the system. Jongdae feels the rush of memories reverse in a flash, like a tape reel rewinding on the fastest option, and then, he drops again, blinking in the surroundings, as the Pons is removed from his head, and he’s unstrapped from the devices. “Next pair.”

“Report to the Analyst’s office tomorrow,” comes the order as he’s making his way out the door, and Jongdae nods, bowing, slinging his rucksack over his shoulder.

He spots Kim Joonmyun heading along the corridor, and he breaks into a light jog up, calling, “Hey, Joonmyun.”

He’s affixed with a strong look. “Yes?”

“Just thought I’d introduce myself. We didn’t really get a chance to meet, during simulation.”

It hadn’t been a planned event, their Drift Sync Testing. Jongdae had slipped into the mock-pod simulation room early, wanting to get a headstart so that he could head off to the Academy library before the afternoon traffic flooded in, and they’d been lacking a Drift test partner. It only seemed reasonable to step up, Jongdae had figured. Who would have known that they’d be so compatible?

“You’re Kim Jongdae, right?” At Jongdae’s confirmation, Joonmyun just nods, and says, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Jongdae furrows his eyebrows as he walks away. “Wait, that’s it?”

“Were you expecting more?” comes the cool response, “try not to, Kim Jongdae. We’re Drift compatible, not anything more.”

The click-clack of Kim Joonmyun’s boots echo through the near-empty hallway as Jongdae is left standing there, slightly crestfallen at the lack of response from his possible future co-pilot. “That was unexpected,” he mutters, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “You’d think he’d be just a bit friendlier.”

“That’s Kim Joonmyun for you,” says a passing Academy recruit. Jongdae recognises him from his sparring sessions with Kwoon Fightmaster Huang, one of the better fighters, though still on the lookout for a Drift compatible partner. “There’s really no point trying to get close. He’ll just push you away, like all the others.”

“Why?” asks Jongdae, but the recruit just throws his head back in a laugh, waving farewell as he turns the corner. His footsteps recall the slam of a hand against tautly wound skins, and it nearly makes him miss his dorm by three doors. Drift runs always hit him hard, and linger for hours on end, even though the Psych Analysts tell him it should wear off within an hour or two.

It’s his eighth week at the Academy, and Jongdae still hasn’t gotten used to it, used to the sprawling mess that the place is, a huge hulking structure, due to the amount of testing labs and training grounds, as well as the PPDC Proving Ground, where they field tested and constructed the very first Jaegers.

It stands now as a graveyard for spare parts. Jongdae sometimes slips out to see it, to press his hands into the snow and wonder what went through the minds of the men and women who watched these giants rise from the palms of their own hands, from the seeds that were planted in their minds the second the Kaiju broke through that bridge in San Francisco.

Eight years, come and gone. For Jongdae, it feels like an eternity has passed.

They have been fighting this war for so long.

The dorm is empty when he walks in, the rest of his dorm-mates probably off at training, and Jongdae savours the momentary privacy that he hasn’t had in weeks.

His hand trails over the crumpled photo that’s tacked to his side of the wall by his bunk. It makes his heart twist. It makes the song return to his memory, the song triggered by the earlier run, and Jongdae lies still on his cot, breathing steady, eyes shut, basking in the waves of old memories that wash up over him. He hasn’t heard the sounds in such a long time. Such a long, long time.

A sharp rap on the door startles him. “Hey,” says Kyungsoo, opening the door. Even though Kyungsoo’s not an Academy recruit, he’s one of the four Jongdae rooms with, all training for different reasons too. It’s a nice mix and match they have going on. “How was Pons?”

“Good.” Jongdae finds himself exhaling. “Too good.”

Kyungsoo shuts the door behind him, and settles on the desk, kicking his feet up on the chair.

“Something happened,” he says. Not a question, a statement. Kyungsoo’s training to be a Psych Analyst, basically a fancier, more well-trained version of a shrink. It’s no surprise he can tell by the furrow of Jongdae’s brow and the quick turn of his mouth what he’s thinking. “You found your co-pilot?”

“Yeah.” Jongdae grunts, pulling his limbs back to himself, sitting up straight against the wall. “Would you believe it? It’s Kim Minseok’s brother.”

Kyungsoo makes a surprised sound in the back of his throat. “Lieutenant Kim? I heard he’s here today, touring the campus with the Kaidonovskys.”

“They’re here?” Jongdae’s eyebrows shoot up. The Cherno Alpha pilots’ visits to the Academy are sparse, but when they do arrive to observe the new recruits, it’s always a scream to watch them do their thing, especially when it comes to sparring. Jongdae wonders if he can catch a peek at them training with the recruits after he does a quick stint in the Kwoon.

“Yeah.” Kyungsoo gives him a look. “So. What was your compatibility score?”

Jongdae laughs, uneasy. Just the mention of it dregs back the look on Kim Joonmyun’s face, or the lack of one. “Guess.”

“Eighty-six.”

Jongdae smiles.

“Eighty-nine,” says Kyungsoo cautiously, and Jongdae can see that he sees it in the way he folds his hands over his knee, “no fucking way. Above a ninety?”

“Ninety-six,” says Jongdae, and Kyungsoo nearly stands up in surprise. “Highest they’d ever seen for two strangers.”

Kyungsoo looks like he’s torn between strangling Jongdae or hugging him. Both out of love, of course. “That’s amazing,” he finally says, “that’s amazing, Jongdae, do you even understand how rare that is?”

“Really rare?” tries Jongdae, and Kyungsoo reaches out to smack him over the head. “That hurts, ow, _ow_ , stop.”

“You’re such a baby.” Kyungsoo shakes his head, but he’s smiling. And it’s the widest smile that Jongdae’s seen on him in a while. “How are you even still here? Congrats, Jongdae. You’ve made it so far.”

“Yeah,” says Jongdae. Something thrums inside him, aching, longing, a trilling whistle that pierces through his wrists. His hand subconsiouly reaches up to touch the photograph again. “So far.”

 

 

Sweat drips from his forehead, slicks up the hair at the nape of his neck, glues the fabric of his shirt to the skin of his back.

He draws back again, fists clenched around the long wooden _bang_ in his hands, and the Kwoon Fightmaster barks out an order to correct his stance. Jongdae slides a foot back, tilts his body, and raises the rod to chest-level, eyes ahead, eyes always ahead.

Sparring has always been one of his favourite parts of training. Ever since joining the Academy, Jongdae has excelled in this area the most, and very unexpectedly so. Jongdae has a knack for interpreting the opponent’s next move through the slight shifts they make, through the sounds they yell out, through the throw of their bodies across the foam mats.

Jongdae twists the _bang_ leisurely, watching his opponent pace cautiously. A flick of the wrist. He sees his elbow rise. Jongdae anticipates a sweeping assault, aiming for his side.

He dodges it perfectly, and slams his opponent to the ground in two strokes.

“Better,” says Fightmaster Huang, tapping the end of his own staff on the ground. “Again. A last time.”

Jongdae swerves around, ducks down to avoid being smacked in the shoulder, and he lands a swift, sharp turn-in to his opponent’s knee, bringing him down with a loud shout and just one stroke.

“That makes ten to nil,” breathes Jongdae, and he helps the kid up, pats him on the back a couple of times, exchanging nods. Fightmaster Huang looks satisfied, giving him a thumbs up, and he lets Jongdae take a short break before resuming with another opponent.

He’s in the changing rooms, grabbing a water bottle from his locker when he spots Kim Joonmyun a few lockers away. About to go into the Kwoon, observes Jongdae, and he says nothing, merely watching Joonmyun sling a towel over his shoulder and walk past him.

Joonmyun has a reputation for being ace at sparring. Of the four major weapons that their Chinese Fightmaster vigorously trains them in, Joonmyun has the best stats for _qiang_ and _jian_ , the spear and the sword.

Jongdae, on the other hand, has the best stats for _bang_ and _dao_. Staff and sabre. Though, he’s never been placed high on the listings. Kim Jongdae is a nobody in the system. Coming from a nowhere town, who would ever take notice of the rookie anyway?

They have never sparred.

He gathers his things, sets them back in his locker, and heads back out to the arena.

Fightmaster Huang spots him, and waves him over with his staff. “Come,” he says, “I heard you and Joonmyun here have achieved a very high compatibility score. Time to see how that works out on the mat.”

“Right now?” asks Jongdae, bending over to reach for the stick on the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Joonmyun watching him warily. Joonmyun has never seen him spar before. Joonmyun has always been solitary in his practices, or when he does, it is always with those more ‘elite’ of their batch, the ones who have the same kind of parentage, or connections. Joonmyun is a military kid, born and bred. But there’s something more to him. There is. Jongdae just knows.

Jongdae swings the staff back around casually, and watches Joonmyun drop into his beginning stance, arm held out as a starting defence.

He can see it in the way Joonmyun’s shoulders are held. Joonmyun doesn’t consider him a proper adversary. Joonmyun probably figures him for a fluke, the way he probably figures their compatibility score for a fluke.

Jongdae’s grip on the _bang_ tightens, and he waits for Joonmyun to make the first move, right foot skidding forward as he thrusts the end forward, and Jongdae tilts back, letting his shoulder catch it, and he pulls forward to strike against Joonmyun’s side, grinning when it lands soundly.

They move back and forth for god knows how many minutes, nothing but the sound of their heavy pants, and the whipcrack of wood against wood, and the soft mutter of the soles of their feet, light on the foam mattress beneath.

He loses track of the time. All he knows in this moment is the sweat that rolls down his face, the thump of adrenaline in his chest, the way Joonmyun gazes so intently at him, attempting to knock him down even as Jongdae does the same, and all he knows is that this is going to get them nowhere.

Joonmyun doesn’t hold back, but still, Jongdae manages to block him, and something inside Jongdae stirs, low and unknown, when Joonmyun slams him against the mat, breathing hard, and presses the stick to his chin. They are barely inches away, and Jongdae has been in compromising positions like this before, but this is something strange, and new.

Something sets in Joonmyun’s expression, something that almost seems like now, he’s reconsidered his previous notions. Almost as if now, the power behind Jongdae’s staff has slammed back his misconception that Jongdae is weak.

He doesn’t let it get him. Jongdae flips them over, and twists his own staff around Joonmyun’s arm, hissing out a breath when Joonmyun hooks their ankles together and pulls hard.

“Stop,” barks the Fightmaster, and Jongdae slumps back, breathing hard. “It’s been ten whole minutes.”

Joonmyun shakes his head. “You can’t be this good.”

“I am,” says Jongdae, smiling despite how tired he is. “Live with it.”

“Why isn’t he higher up in the sparring listings?” asks Joonmyun, glancing over at Jongdae again, a strange look on his face.

“Because of recruits like you,” says Fightmater Huang easily, and Jongdae knows that Joonmyun knows what that means, when Joonmyun’s teeth set, understanding anddisapproving. “Now, go.”

They both know a dismissal when they hear one. Jongdae turns and walks back to the changing rooms and Joonmyun follows, a few steps behind. The way he’s staring at Jongdae makes Jongdae just the slightest bit uneasy. “What?” he finally asks, glancing behind him.

Joonmyun stops in his tracks. “You’re better than I thought you’d be,” he grudgingly admits. That’s a first. “You could beat the higher ranking recruits, no challenge.”

“Not just some nobody now, hmm?” says Jongdae, and he grins, a crooked little smile, at Joonmyun’s expression. “I know. You don’t think I’m much. I’m just Kim Jongdae. And you’re Kim Joonmyun.”

“I didn’t say that,” says Joonmyun, and there’s a flicker of something that seems like regret tinging his voice. “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

“Well,” says Jongdae, “if we’re going to be co-pilots, you’re gonna need to learn to expect a hell of a lot more.”

Joonmyun looks startled. But then his gaze sharpens, and the corners of his mouth turn up. Jongdae’s eyes follow the motion before he realises it. “I look forward to it, then,” says Joonmyun, and he walks past Jongdae into the locker rooms.

Jongdae watches him go, a laugh in his throat. “Look forward to it, huh,” he mutters, eyes still following the motion of Joonmyun’s shoulders as he disappears behind the door. The odd tension from before, during the fight, brims silently in his gut.

He swallows hard, collects himself again, and heads to grab his things.

 

 

Jongdae lifts the spoon warily. Mashed potatoes again.

“Better than that unidentifiable mush from last Thursday, right?” Baekhyun has a heaping pile of mashed potatoes on his own plate. His spoon sticks out from it like some kind of proudly placed territorial marker. “I swear to god that was probably sent over from the K-Science labs by accident or something.”

“On purpose, maybe,” says Chanyeol, uncharacteristically glum, stirring his own mashed potatoes into liquid spud. “Who got sick that day? Me. Park Chanyeol. That’s who. I think Dr. Lee has something against me.”

“Dr. Lee has nothing against you,” says Kyungsoo, eating his mashed potatoes like a regular person. “Well. Didn’t you accidentally knock over that one tank of Kaiju guts on Saturday? You came back dressed in a hazard suit and stinking of ammonia.”

Chanyeol scrunches up his nose, and stabs at his plate. “I’m going to flunk out if I keep doing this.”

“Hey, you won’t,” says Jongdae encouragingly. Even with all his lanky clumsiness, Chanyeol is still one of the most brilliant people he’s met. His goofiness just hides how intelligent he is. No one would expect the one kid with the crazy grin to have tested the highest on almost all K-Science officer examinations. “Just… try not to move your arms around too much, yeah?”

“Okay,” sighs Chanyeol, and he knocks his cup over and spills water all over Kyungsoo’s favourite sweater.

As Kyungsoo calmly reaches over to strangle Chanyeol, Jongdae receives a light tap on his shoulder, and he turns around to see an engineer, who just says, “Report to the loading bridge at 1500 hours next Tuesday,” before walking off.

Jongdae can’t help the grin that scrawls across his face as the meaning of the words sink in.

He’s going to see his Jaeger.

 

 

_"There stands the awful home of murky Nyx wrapped in dark clouds. In front of it the son of Iapetos  stands immovably upholding the wide heaven upon his head and unwearying hands, where Nyx and Hemera  draw near and greet one another as they pass the great threshold of bronze."_

It stands tall, like a gigantic, jagged building, gleaming in the loading dock as around it, engineers and technicians work. Jongdae stares up at it with eyes wide, as he approaches the railing. “Christ,” he breathes. “It’s huge.” Red and blue streaks cross it in flashes of lightning bolts.

“Atlas Shift,” says J-Tech Officer Min, stirring a mug of coffee, looking worn out. “Had some problems with the processor at first. Took all night to get it going again. But it’s in top condition.” He glances over to the side, and barks for one of the recruits working under him. “Tell Officer Kim to get his team working on the Conn-Pod connection.”

As the kid scurries away, Jongdae glances up to see someone coming in where he’s exiting, and it’s Joonmyun, whose gaze falls on him first, then on the Jaeger behind them. Joonmyun’s mouth falls open involuntarily, momentarily stunned. “Wow,” he says quietly.

Overwhelming, it is, the sight of their own man-made monster.

_"Atlas the baleful; he knows the depths of all the seas, and he, no other, guards the tall pillars that keep the sky and earth apart."_

“Like the name?” asks the man who’s come in with Joonmyun, grinning widely. The nametag on his shirt reads Dr. Jung. “We’d suggested it to the higher-ups a week or so ago. Fitting, isn’t it?”

“The man who held the world on his shoulders?”

“Not the world,” says Joonmyun, taking in the hulking mass of steel, metal, edges. “The divide between the earth and the sky.”

“Right in one.” Officer Min hides a yawn into the rim of his mug. “I’ll give you both a moment.”

They’re left standing on the bridge, eyes still on the Jaeger. Their Jaeger.

Something inside Jongdae tightens. Maybe it’s the thought that he’s going to be out there, fighting for real now. A beast of the land against a beast of the sea. Maybe it’s the thought that, now he’s finally gotten to this point, after all these years.

Maybe it’s the uncharacteristic look on Joonmyun’s face, the open, awe-filled look that Jongdae hasn’t seen before.

It comes now with the knowledge of what lies ahead of them.

_"Towering Atlas shuddered and shifted the weight of heaven upon his trembling shoulders."_

Jongdae takes a last glance at the Jaeger, makes it last for as long as he can.

 

 

The Drivesuit is a tight fit on him, a mix of circuits, polycarbonates and latex, almost like a second skin. Jongdae watches the technician attach the battle armour layer with interest. He can almost feel his spine interlacing with the spinal clamp, the single nervous system attachment that runs up along his back and hooks into the plate at the nape of his neck, the attachment that joins both of their spines together, him and Joonmyun’s.

Jongdae flexes a hand experimentally, shifts his footing to judge the heavy metal soles.

They hand him the helmet, a sleek black piece of headgear, reminiscent of those worn by the Chinese and Japanese Rangers, and Jongdae has to choke back an inappropriate laugh. He never thought he’d see the day. He never thought he’d be standing here, wearing this suit, about to go into his own Jaeger.

His Jaeger.

 _Their_ Jaeger.

Joonmyun is suited up beside him, looking so natural, as if this isn’t the first time he’s done this, as if his heart isn’t thumping against his ribcage like the thundering clap of erratic lightning.

He looks like a leader. The leader he was meant to be. The leader he’s always wanted to be.

Jongdae swallows, his throat suddenly feeling parched.

Automatically, they fall into step, side by side, as they walk along the bridge, to the launch deck where more technicians stand by to assist the initial start-up of the Conn-Pod, the control centre of the Jaeger. The process has been etched into Jongdae’s mind by now, with every schematic run-through, with each observation and test-run.

They climb into the cockpit, connect to the operating system. The Pod is dropped down a shaft where it reconnects to the body of the Jaeger. And then, the fun begins.

Jongdae settles into place on the right, and Joonmyun on the left. There’s a loud suctioning sound as Relay Gel begins to flood into their helmets, a thick oozing yellow, to allow the relay of impulses between the two of them. Jongdae nearly forgets to breathe when it’s over, eyes blinking away the last vestiges of the gel as its sucked back into the little tubes along their helmets.

“Rangers,” comes the steady voice of the LOCCENT Mission Controller, a voice all too familiar. “This is your controller for today speaking.” Jongdae almost smiles, now remembering the excited look on Baekhyun’s face this morning as he’d chattered about some practical, hands-on work that he’d get to do today. Looks like this was it. “Prepare for synchronization within T-minus thirty.”

“Yes, controller,” replies Joonmyun curtly, pulling the digital HUD towards him, a translucent screen that blips and blinks multicolour. Jongdae does the same, tapping in the required codes, checking access to basic functions, making sure everything is working. “T-minus fifteen.”

“Remember, this is a simple Drift. There will be no launch.” Switches are flipped, buttons are pressed. Jongdae steadies himself for the onslaught of memories, this time, not his own. “Neural Handshake activating in three—“

_Inhale._

“—two—“

_Exhale._

“—one.”

It slams into him, into them, waves rushing straight through his mind, suffocating, suffocating, suffocating— swirling, twirling, blending in with every single emotion and feeling and thought he has in him, swirling into his bloodstream and threading through his fingers like whirlpools, suffocating, suffocating, suffocating _inhale exhale inhale exhale breathe breathe breathe i can’t breathe_ —

—and here it comes and here it goes and here is where it begins to show, the steady song that rises from the tips of his toes and enters through his throat and spills out through his eyes and ears and mouth and floods his system, draws him back into himself, drags him away from the overflow of memories and he watches them swing past like the wind zipping around the corner of a building, watches them passively, eyes open but _not quite open_ , heart still but _not quite still_ , and the urge to latch onto one is so great, _so great_ , but he lets them pass, he lets them come through him and he waits—

He sees the image of a young boy, he sees and feels his fear, he sees monsters of old and new crashing through walls, he hears a shout, he feels a scream bubble up inside him but it is not his scream, who does the scream belong to, who does it belong to, who is screaming—

He sees the image of a young man, he sees and feels his fear, he sees a laugh and he sees a smile but they do not belong to the young man, they are mocking and willing and killing and the young man shouts, the young man reaches out, and the young man falls to the ground and picks himself up and stands tall and says nobody can stop him, this is his choice, it is his cross to bear and he will bear it with all he has and all his might and all he can do—

He sees everything, and that is all he does: _he sees_.

But then there is one memory that flings by, that catches his eye, and it is the strangest thing, it is, for it is there but it will not appear. It comes as a blurry flash of images that he cannot place at all, and it is hidden, it is a secret, it is hindering them from connecting completely, and his fingers ache to touch it, and he reaches out—

He is jerked back into consciousness, the waters surrounding him receding almost as immediately as they intruded, and Jongdae blinks, remembers to find his breath, catches his mind and his own memories and himself and—

Beside him, Joonmyun shudders out a breath, at the same time Jongdae does.

“Neural Handshake complete,” comes the voice over the intercom, and it is hushed, and tinged with a strange sort of quality. Almost like awe. “Synchronization complete at ninety-six percent, eleven point seven eight seconds.”

It has only been seconds, seconds, seconds.

“Amazing,” comes another voice, and it is the voice of General Cho, who has been watching the proceedings with a hawk’s eye, and her voice is amplified within the Conn-Pod. “The both of you are incredibly compatible.”

“Yes, ma’am,” voices Jongdae, “but only with a Pons on.”

Beside him, Joonmyun stiffens and Jongdae has to hold back a grin.

There’s a bark of a laugh. “This is merely your first drift, Ranger. Let the days pass, and you will come to see that there’s more to it than just a Pons. Resume connection tests, controller.”

Jongdae can feel the simmering anger that boils at the surface of Joonmyun’s mind, and he pushes his own cheek back at it, _stop being so stiff, Kim Joonmyun. Live a little_.

 _You watch yourself, Kim Jongdae_ , comes the hastily replied thought. Along with it floats a little bit of something Jongdae can’t really place. But then, it’s the same thing that flickers at the tips of his fingers, that strange tension that isn’t really tension.

Ah.

Jongdae laughs inside his head, and flips the HUD towards him.

 

 

His sixteen weeks are up.

This is where he steps out into the world. This is where he becomes part of those working to stop the monsters that rise from the oceans deep. This is where he joins the apocalypse direct.

But first, a little graduation party.

The affair is merrier than he’d expected, considering the fact that they are in the midst of a war that seems to never end.

“I think we all need some cheer in our lives, once in a while,” shouts Baekhyun over the ruckus, handing him a drink, “don’t you?” And he’s off, whooping, towards a group of engineers playing beer pong in the corner.

“Party animals,” comments Kyungsoo, “never knew the officers all had it in them.”

“And you?” teases Jongdae, leaning back against the wall. “Not in the mood to make a fool of yourself?”

Kyungsoo laughs. “Maybe after a few more. And if Dr. Park agrees to a quick dance.”

“Oh?” Jongdae’s eyes slip over to where Chanyeol is chatting away with some of the Bioharvesters from the K-Science section. “Does Chanyeol know?”

“Yura’s a big girl,” says Kyungsoo slyly, floating away, “she can handle herself without her brother around.”

Jongdae lifts his red plastic cup to Kyungsoo, watching him move across the small room. He’s right. Maybe it is time to live just a little. If not now, then when will they?

He’s just glad that there is some reprieve before the attacks begin, before the work starts, before humanity receives a grim reminder.

 

 

The alarms blare with an intensity unheard for many months, now.

“Category Two,” comes the voice of the overhead AI, much too calm for the furor of the crowd working beneath, for the tidal wave of officers who begin to throw themselves into their work, for the people who immediately start sending out signals, distress signals and calls and sirens for the city to get to safezones. “Category Two. Code name: Atticon.”

In Jongdae’s room, the siren goes off, and a voice floats in through the system built into the wall. “All hands report to stations. Category Two. Jaegers in operation: Atlas Shift.”

Jongdae sits up, ramrod straight. His breath rattles in his throat. It’s time.

“Jongdae,” comes Baekhyun’s voice from the bunk beside, and Baekhyun has never looked so worried, so unsmiling in his life, and it makes Jongdae’s gut flop. “Be safe. Destroy that motherfucker.”

“I will,” says Jongdae’s voice, but he’s on autopilot now, getting up to pull his clothes on, even as the rest of the room gets up to get ready as well, “I will, I will.”

Chanyeol’s hand comes up to rest on his shoulder. “You’re gonna go out there,” he says, voice firm, eyes sharp, and it’s a first; Jongdae has never seen Chanyeol this serious before. “You’re going to go and fight and become a hero, Jongdae.”

“And you’re going to come back,” says Kyungsoo quietly, approaching the three of them standing in the middle of the room, “come back, alright? You better.”

Jongdae lets out a hoarse chuckle. “I’ll try, Kyungsoo.”

Suddenly, he’s swept into an unexpected hug, and Baekhyun has his arms around him, and Chanyeol has his arms around them, and Kyungsoo just shakes his head, and throws himself in too.

Jongdae has always felt lonely, ever since the day he was first found alone.

But right now, in this moment, he has never felt less lonely in his life.

When Jongdae steps out into the chaos of the hallways, his feet automatically seem to carry him to the loading bridge off LOCCENT Command Central, and his soles have never felt heavier, _his soul has never felt heavier_.

He sees Joonmyun, heading up just as he does, and he greets him with a quick nod, and Joonmyun does the same.

“Ready?” says Joonmyun, and there’s a slight twist to the quirk in his lips.

“Who would be?” Jongdae allows their arms to brush slightly as they walk into the dock. “You tell me.”

He doesn’t need the Drift to tell him that Joonmyun is feeling the exact fear that he is, feeling the exact same adrenaline. Jongdae can feel it simmering under his own skin, in the palms of his hands.

And Joonmyun—he looks different, now. Almost. As if he has shed the strange arrogance that cloaked him as he walked the halls. Now, Joonmyun seems more like the man who pilots Atlas Shift, more like the man who knows that he now carries the divide between the Earth and the Breach on his shoulders.

He seems more human. More alive. The rawness in his expression is refreshing.

Their eyes meet. Jongdae wants to say—what does he want to say? Something burns down his spine just as he opens his mouth to let the words come, but they do not. Maybe it is the intensity in Joonmyun’s gaze. Maybe it is the way Jongdae wants to figure him out. Maybe it is the way Jongdae is unmistakably curious about whom Kim Joonmyun actually is.

But there is no time for chatter now. Now is the time for the fight to arrive on their shores.

Jongdae slips into his suit and inhales, exhales the air of the Shatterdome, possibly one last time.

 

 

The sea is silent, the night quiet.

But the water begins to ripple, the water splits and parts, and like a great tsunami rising from the depths of the trenches, it bursts forth, slow, rumbling, but monstrous in its size. The water rushes off it in waterfalls, falling around it as it is released from below, head throwing back. The monster stands.

A piercing, terrifying, screaming roar echoes through the air, like the sound of a thunderclap filtered through white noise and static feedback.

 

 

“One—“

_Inhale._

“—two—“

_Exhale._

“—three.”

It slams into him, into them, waves rushing straight through his mind, suffocating, suffocating, suffocating— swirling, twirling, blending in with every single emotion and feeling and thought he has in him, swirling into his bloodstream and threading through his fingers like whirlpools, suffocating, suffocating, suffocating _inhale exhale inhale exhale breathe breathe breathe i can’t breathe_ —

—and here it comes and here it goes, right from his fingers to the tips of his toes, from his lungs and his heart and the back of his spine it winds, winds, winds, untwines and spills out before his eyes and ears and mouth and nose can comprehend, and it catches him tight, makes him bend, makes him bend into these shapes, contours and unknowing languor, and here it comes and here it goes, and—

There is still that one memory, that one memory that is locked to the touch, locked away from sight, and he yearns, he wants, he craves, he _needs_ to reach out and touch it, but then—

Joonmyun breathes in, and Jongdae breathes out.

“Neural Handshake complete. Synchronization complete at ninety-six percent, nine point two eight seconds.”

 

 

People stream through the roads, the streets. Chaos has erupted.

The Kaiju storms through like a whirlwind, faster than anyone has ever seen a Kaiju move, quick despite its size. It’s smaller than the other Category Two Kaiju that have appeared from the Breach, but its speed makes up for what it lacks. It slams into buildings left and right, blue breath melting down the streets, its cry ringing loud through the evening skies.

Another rumble joins it. The heavy slam of a foot catches it off guard and it screeches when it sees the giant Jaeger approaching, quick on its feet, a heavy arm raised to catch it in the throat.

It’s thrown back into a tall tower, and glass shatters, raining down upon those below, shards like water drops, glinting in the light.

Within the Jaeger they draw back, and prepare to take it down completely.

 

 

“Activating weapons system,” says Jongdae, and he reaches out to the HUD to input the command. “Weapons system activated.”

“Ready,” says Joonmyun, and the both of them draw back the left arm of the Jaeger, metal fingers clenching tight into a fist, and the elbow of the Jaeger disengages to reveal a built-in rocket.

The monster bursts out from the dust, ascending like a predator striking quick at its prey, but this time the tables turn, as they slam the fist forward with combined strength. It flies back again, this time scrabbling weakly to get back up.

They move forward before it can, and one hand grabs it by the throat. The other bashes into the Kaiju, over and over, but they cannot escape the acid that’s spat straight at them, and threatens to melt through the metal. Blue gunk hisses as it eats away at the exterior of the Jaeger.

It surges back up again at the momentary interruption, and takes them aback, shoving them straight into an opposing building. The Jaeger hits it heavily, and they can feel the pain, the spinal clamp that’s dug straight into their spines and built into the Jaeger’s system, responding to the hit. It’s agonising, and Jongdae grits his teeth, and bites back the pain. Joonmyun’s pain echoes through his mind as well, but he subdues it as much as he can, tugs some of it over to him as Joonmyun activates the missile launcher on his side of the Jaeger.

One after another, missiles are launched at the Kaiju, but it seems to dodge every single one of them, until one catches it in the leg and it lets out a painful shriek that dregs through the air, and it falls to the ground, limp but still able to move.

“Now,” says Joonmyun, and they need not even put it into words. They are connected. They share the same thought. They share the same instincts. Jongdae engages the palm blaster, pulls it back, and slams it in the direction of the Kaiju, fiery blue and red speeding towards it before it can get away.

It howls in the final throes of its death.

Jongdae, breathing hard, disconnects the charge, and lets his arm fall to his side.

The ache ebbs through them, but now, a different feeling mingles, and it is relief now that soothes, and then, the soft cry of victory inside them.

They have won the day.

 

 

“You fucking did it!” Baekhyun nearly knocks him over with the force of his jump. Jongdae trips back and glares at him. “You didn’t die!”

“Get off,” whines Jongdae, pushing at Baekhyun’s shoulders, “you’re heavy.”

Chanyeol picks Baekhyun up off Jongdae and Kyungsoo punches Baekhyun in the shoulder, receiving a loud yelp. Jongdae nods approvingly. That’s what room-mates are for. Or friends. Are they friends, now?

Jongdae smiles wearily when they ruffle his hair and slap him on the back encouragingly, and leave him to rest, leave him to curl up on his bunk and almost like ritual done daily, scrape the callused tips of his fingers over the photograph on his wall.

The soft, slow rhythm of drums floats through his bones.

Jongdae hums quietly, folds his hands over his knees, and tries not to think of the echoing fear that he’d sensed in Joonmyun, that had matched his own.

What comes in his dreams is still Joonmyun, but the sound of his voice matches the stirring song that patters quietly in the background.

 

 

He comes across them in a near empty corridor after a fitful, sleepless night, some weeks later, spent at his hideout over on the Proving Grounds. He catches his footsteps before they can echo around the corner, and waits. The voices are hushed, but he can still make them out clearly.

“Joonmyun,” says the first voice. “You can’t keep going on like this.”

“I can,” comes the reply, tense, but still soft, “you can’t dictate my life, Minseok.”

“You’re my brother. I’m supposed to look after you.”

“Then what was I?” Joonmyun sounds pained. “I was supposed to look after her. I couldn’t even—I was her _brother_.”

“So was I,” whispers Minseok tersely, “you can’t keep holding all the blame to yourself, goddammit, Joonmyun!”

“It was my fucking fault,” says Joonmyun. “If I’d just… I should have…”

“And die too?”

Jongdae can hear a shuffling noise, and a soft thump. It sounds like someone has been pushed up against the wall.

“I should have died instead of her.” Joonmyun’s voice shakes. “ _Me._ Not her. She should have lived.”

“And what are you doing now? Risking everything just to—what, get revenge? Some kind of sick closure? It kills her, you kill it, the world’s back to normal?”

“You don’t know,” snarls Joonmyun, and Jongdae can see his shadow lengthen and slip away, his voice fading down the corridor. “You don’t know, Minseok.”

Jongdae listens until the sound of footsteps, both pairs, disappear, before he makes his way around the corner. Something in him feels tight, compressed. He’d had no idea Joonmyun had a little sister.

 _Had_ a little sister.

 

 

It’s barely a few days after the night when the sirens wail and scream.

Jongdae throws himself out of bed at the sound of the name _Atlas Shift_ reverberating through the systems, and makes his way down to LOCCENT as quickly as possible.

Joonmyun is already there, looking as immaculate as ever, but there is something in the way his shoulders slump, the slightest bit, too telling. Jongdae reaches out without thinking, to rest his hand on Joonmyun’s arm, and he murmurs, “You okay?”

“Fine,” says Joonmyun, and he looks tired, so tired. It reminds Jongdae of the nights in which he wakes up and glances into the mirror to see paper-thin skin and night-logged eyes. Joonmyun echoes that now, in his voice, in the way his words crumble as they fall from his lips. “I’m fine. I’m ready.”

“No one is ever ready,” says Jongdae, and his grip tightens slightly, testing. Joonmyun doesn’t flinch, doesn’t make a move to throw him off. “You going in distracted won’t help us at all.”

“I’m not distracted,” says Joonmyun, but still, he doesn’t look at Jongdae. “I’m not.”

Jongdae can hear the rumble of the ocean in his ears.

 

 

“One—“

_Inhale._

“—two—“

_Exhale._

“—three.”

It comes smoother this time, but still as much a rush as the first time, twisting and twining and twirling into every single thread of him that sparks and burns and fizzes, that makes him feel like he’s burning, he’s burning, burning up from the inside out, and there it goes, and there he goes, and there he can feel the wind blow strong against his face, and this—

Wait.

Jongdae opens his eyes, and this is not his memory. This is not the sound that he knows.

This is a harsh scream, and the clicking of a lock that echoes on, and on, and on, and this is Joonmyun’s memory.

Joonmyun has fallen into it, has begun to chase the memory, has accidentally trapped himself in this one, locked away secret, that Jongdae has never been able to see properly through all their runs and all their Drifts, and this is it.

This is the day that the monster stormed through the city, but this is not the nowhere town Jongdae knows, these are not the nowhere people that Jongdae knows.

There is a screaming roar overhead.

“Joonmyun,” he yells, looking around wildly. He’s got to pull him out of the memory as quickly as he can. He knows anything could go wrong, when someone starts chasing the rabbit. The weapons system is not yet activated, but it might be, soon, if a threat arises, and Joonmyun loses control over the situation, or panics. “ _Joonmyun!_ ”

There are people streaming through the streets, screaming, shouting, crying, as the Kaiju rages behind them, but the scene focuses on one person.

A little girl, standing in the middle of the road.

And he finally sees Joonmyun, though much younger, so much younger now, looking so scared, so terrified, so pained, as he stretches out his arm as far as he can go, towards the little girl, as he runs towards her.

He doesn’t reach her in time.

Jongdae has to look away.

The young boy he knows from the flashes of memory, he screams and scrambles back and watches the monster fill the cityscape above him, rearing down upon him, and that’s where Jongdae knows he has to act, has to move in to stop Joonmyun.

“No,” he says, as calmly as he can, as if there is not a Kaiju right above him, above them, as if he’s not quaking in his Drivesuit, and his voice rings clear through the area. Joonmyun doesn’t spare him a glance, but Jongdae knows his voice can be heard. “Joonmyun, this is not real. You’re in the Drift, you need to remember who you are, where you are now.”

Joonmyun chokes out a sob, and somewhere in the distance, he can hear yelling, and the whirring sound of a system’s generators.

“Joonmyun, please,” says Jongdae, “come back, come back, don’t chase this. She’s gone, you can’t—you can’t let this define you anymore. Joonmyun, come back.”

The Kaiju howls.

Joonmyun is still breathing hard, tears rolling down his face, but it is no longer his younger form, it is _him_ , him as he is now, and he looks lost, so lost.

“Come back,” says Jongdae, and his words are fading back into the Drift, and it is working, it is winning, the monster is here but they are not losing, they are falling back, back, back into themselves and the pain and the rush travels backwards, back in time, back like a rewinding tape and Jongdae says, “Come back to me.”

It comes as suddenly as it goes. It goes as suddenly as it comes.

The weapons system is winding back down. Jongdae looks over at Joonmyun, and he is shaking, out of wind, fists clenched so tightly. But they are back. Joonmyun is back. He’s fine. Jongdae checks the systems as Joonmyun sucks air into his lungs anew, and makes sure the connections are still stable. They are good to go.

Jongdae takes a breath, listens to the crowding voices of the engineers, and the officers, and focuses on the task ahead of them. They still have a duty to perform. They cannot let this set them back.

Jongdae takes a breath and wipes away the face of Joonmyun’s sister from his mind.

Jongdae takes a breath, and Joonmyun takes a breath, and they prepare for the drop.

 

 

“You did well.” General Cho looks between the both of them. “Good job, Rangers.”

The Kaiju has been taken down. Hammerjaw now lies as a corpse on the ocean floor, but so does Echo Sabre, and its two pilots. They fought valiantly, remembers Jongdae, the vivid memory of the battle replaying in his mind, the vivid recollection of the Kaiju ripping the Conn-Pod of the other Jaeger right off and shucking it into the roaring waves.

It is the most incredible thing in the world, to know that barely an hour ago, they had been in the middle of a whirling, wailing storm, in the middle of the sea, facing a gigantic creature from the depths, not knowing if they’d survive, not knowing if they’d be alive.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Joonmyun is subdued, though they have won today’s fight. Jongdae feels it, the whirring in his joints that echoes the ebbing ache in Joonmyun’s own. “May we take leave now?”

“Go, get some rest. Report back to LOCCENT for debriefing tonight.”

Jongdae allows himself to be led away.

He feels like he’s about to melt. He is still conscious, still moving, but something in him is tugging him towards Joonmyun, and it’s when Joonmyun turns to glance at him that it slams into him, and he’s inhaling sharply at the look on Joonmyun’s face, the sharp inhale that Joonmyun takes as well.

The desire is clear. The need is there. It filters in through the lingering ghost of their Drift, and makes itself known to both of them.

It has always been there. But now, they both see it.

They both _feel_ it.

He wants to reach out and touch Joonmyun, right here, right now. He knows that Joonmyun wants to do the same.

Joonmyun shudders out a breath, motions with his chin, and starts walking again.

Jongdae’s heart is going to jump out of his chest. His feet are leading him behind Joonmyun, not even realising where they’re going, until Joonmyun makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, and says, “I don’t have room-mates,” and opens the door to his own room.

The door has barely clicked shut behind them when Joonmyun shepherds Jongdae up against the wall. Their hands scramble for purchase, fingers grabbing at clothes and skin and each other until they’re both a strange, tangled mess of limbs, just touching, breathing each other in, nothing else yet.

The effects of the Drift still linger.

Jongdae can feel Joonmyun’s breath in him, can feel their pulses shuddering to the same rhythm, can feel Joonmyun’s thoughts entwining with his own. It scares him. It comforts him. It excites him.

When they kiss, it is nothing short of ferocious, nothing short of vicious, with the way they tear at each other, all the simmering conflict rising to the surface, all the tension finally flooding through them in this one match of mouths meeting, tongues curling together and teeth scraping over lips. Their hands meet several times, seeking warmth, seeking a sort of need that only their palms pressed together can fulfill.

Jongdae has never experienced anything like this. It burns up inside him, burning up into his lungs, into his throat and forming in the little gasps that escape into Joonmyun’s mouth. Joonmyun twists his fingers into Jongdae’s hair, pulls him closer, so close that there’s no space left between them, and Jongdae just wants to get even closer. The ghost drift lingers, like fingertips trailing across the soft expanse of skin, and it is echoed in the way Jongdae trails his palms down Joonmyun’s back, coming up to cup his ass through his uniform trousers.

“What the fuck are we doing,” exhales Jongdae, _and why can’t we pull away?_ Everything is so messy, so tangled together, and right now, all Jongdae wants is for Joonmyun to press him into the wall and kiss him again, and again, and again, and again, until he can’t feel his own lips. “Joonmyun, what the fuck are we doing?”

“I don’t know,” mumbles Joonmyun, and he sounds so confused, so pained, but so wanting, and he kisses Jongdae again, almost desperately, kissing him with a desire that Jongdae’s never seen in him before. “Oh, god.”

“I just,” pants Jongdae, in between kisses, “I’m sorry about just now.”

“You pulled me out of there,” whispers Joonmyun, and he holds Jongdae still for a second, breathing hard, “you pulled me out of the chase. What if I’d triggered a weapon? What if—“

“No,” says Jongdae, “no more ‘ _what if,_ ’ just come… come here, shh, just…”

Jongdae tugs Joonmyun to the bed, toppling backwards as Joonmyun pushes him back against it, straddling his hips to lean down and press more kisses to the base of his neck, to the curve of his clavicles, roughly tugging his shirt down at the collar to suck his teeth into the soft skin of his shoulder.

“Joonmyun,” moans Jongdae, hands coming up to curl into Joonmyun’s hips, then moving to twist into the hair at the nape of his neck, then skimming back down to slide up his shirt, warm skin on warm skin, their bodies pressing flush together. “I want you.”

There’s a hitch in his breathing, and Joonmyun stares down at him. “I,” he says, and Jongdae can see the hesitation in his eyes, the tension that has occupied the both of them for so long, taking its time to dissipate, and Jongdae presses his hands to Joonmyun’s face, imploring him, wanting him so fucking much. “I want you too, Jongdae.”

“Then come on,” whispers Jongdae, “come on, _come on_ , Joonmyun, please.”

Joonmyun dips down to kiss him again, long and drawn-out, kissing him until Jongdae can feel the ache in his bones, all the way down to his ankles, in the way his toes curl, in the way his fingers grasp at the sheets below him, in the way he says Joonmyun’s name over and over, until it’s just a mess of syllables.

They spend the night together, even after the ghost drift has subsided, even after their thoughts have returned to one another.

It is because Joonmyun presses his nose against Jongdae’s ear, and whispers, “Do you want to stay?”

It is because Jongdae turns his head to face him, nudges their noses together, and whispers in return, “Do you want me to go?”

In the morning, they wake up, and they are no longer joined in mind, but they are joined in the way their hands link loosely between them.

 

 

It is visible, the change that takes place.

He smiles more. People begin to notice, the cold, always unsmiling Kim Joonmyun, baring his teeth at his co-pilot Kim Jongdae, not in a snarl but in a soft, small grin, one that grows with each week that passes.

Joonmyun is still terrifying, still ruthless with the new recruits, still formal and stuffy and stoic, but there are little cracks in his demeanour that Jongdae just wants to dig his fingers into, and crumble away slow and steady, to reveal the real Joonmyun, the Joonmyun before the day happened, the Joonmyun who used to be.

And he thinks, after some months, he might be getting there soon.

The day Joonmyun sits with him and his friends in the cafeteria is also the day Chanyeol spills his entire food tray down the back of Baekhyun’s shirt.

Baekhyun is more stunned by the fact that Joonmyun is sitting with them and _talking_ to them than the fact that he now has mashed potatoes down his neck.

“Don’t get used to it,” says Joonmyun, but Jongdae draws him into conversation anyway, tries to get him to open up more, reaches out to him and threads him into the topics that they talk about every day. And Joonmyun likes it, Jongdae can tell. The quirk in Joonmyun’s tone and the way he drums his fingers lightly on the table. The way his eyes brighten when someone says something funny, or when Chanyeol snorts water up his nose from laughing too much. The way his hand comes to rest on Jongdae’s thigh, light and easy, even as Jongdae glances over and smiles at him.

Joonmyun has missed this, hasn’t he? Not being alone. Not being lonely.

“And you won’t ever be,” says Jongdae, one day as they’re sparring. He spins and slams the staff onto Joonmyun’s shoulder, and Joonmyun swings his staff into Jongdae’s knee just as he turns.

They reach another stalemate.

“How can you be so certain?”

“Because,” says Jongdae, “I’m here, now.”

Joonmyun laughs, a rare sound. It is one that Jongdae wishes to treasure forever. “I should have known you would say that.”

“Am I that predictable now?” Jongdae twirls the stick between his palms casually. “We’ve only known each other for some months, now.”

“Yet it feels like we’ve known each other for much longer, now,” says Joonmyun. Something in his face tightens. Jongdae sets his bang down on the sparring mat, and he approaches Joonmyun, feet padding across the floor over to him.

Jongdae’s hand skim along the line of Joonmyun’s shoulder, just where a bruise is beginning to form, purple-red skin stain no thanks to Jongdae’s strength. Only self-restraint holds him back from leaning into the curve of Joonmyun’s neck to press his tongue to it, to trace it the way he desires to trace the knobs of Joonmyun’s spine from the small of his back up to the nape of his neck.

“ Vengeance is mine, and recompense,” says Jongdae softly, “for the time when their foot shall slip; for the day of their calamity is at hand, and their doom comes swiftly.”

The arch of his eyebrow matches the arch in his lip as Joonmyun hums, amused, “Didn’t know you were religious.”

“In this time of need, how can we not be?” Jongdae smiles lightly. “When I was younger, I had held onto that verse like it was the only thing I could depend on. Now, I think vengeance is something that need not be taken, after all.”

“Are you sure about that?” asks Joonmyun. His hand comes up to rub along Jongdae’s collarbones, thumbing across the protruding angles. “They’ve taken away everything we’ve ever loved, you know.”

“I do.” Jongdae breathes out. “But what are we here for? To save lives. Not to avenge our families.”

Joonmyun’s jaw sets slightly, before his expression relaxes again, and he’s nodding, head hanging. “You’re right, I guess. That is our duty. This is what we’ve enlisted to do.”

They stand together, in the middle of the Kwoon, just holding onto each other, hearing each other’s breaths, knowing that they share something now—not just the compatibility of their Drifts, but the comfort that comes with knowing the story of another survivor.

“Speaking of family,” says Joonmyun quietly, “I’ve never asked about yours before, even after seeing them in the Drift. I’m sorry, Jongdae.”

Jongdae slides his hand down Joonmyun’s arm, and slips it into his own hand, threading their fingers together. “Don’t be,” he says, and though his tone is bright, the words still burn up his throat. The photo stays stuck onto the wall in his shared room and his mind aches with the memory. “I have you now.”

 

 

It’s after a long, exhausting night running special weapons tactics that Jongdae decides to divert them from their regular route back to their dorms, and instead head out through the winding hallways of the compound, leading to the Proving Grounds.

“I wanted to show you,” says Jongdae, not really explaining as he leads Joonmyun to one of the larger, abandoned watch-towers further up along the perimeter, and he can see the furrow in Joonmyun’s brow as he wrenches open the rusty door, opening a way to a mess of metal bars and stairs and something leading up, up, up and away. “Come on.”

Joonmyun hangs back, always hesitant. Always the stickler for the rules.

“You’re not scared, are you?” teases Jongdae lightly, and something in Joonmyun’s face changes, something smoothens out his features and pushes up the corners of his lips. Jongdae smiles.

“Lead the way.”

They clamber up broken constructs and climb precariously across bars, but Jongdae has done this before, too many times, and he’s confident Joonmyun can too. Joonmyun takes it well, feet light and airy across the too-shaky stairs, and fingers finding support crevices in the walls easily.

Reaching the top takes them what feels like forever, but training has paid off, and they are barely out of breath by the time they get up there. What meets them there is what takes their breaths away. Even though Jongdae has seen this so many times, he will never stop being awed by it.

Joonmyun approaches the railing, eyes widening, lips parted slightly.

Jongdae comes up behind him. “Nice, isn’t it.”

The perimeter is wide, reaching, as it is on an island, and here, from the top of the old watch-tower, the sea meets the land in a glistening spread of snow and water, the dim light from the rising sun reflecting off the ice. The sky is painted almost-blues and almost-purples, almost-reds and almost-oranges.

It reminds Jongdae of his favourite _buk_ , the one his grandfather used to play, the one he used to run his little palms over, textured red and blue and green and yellow, the beautiful swirl of mixed and matched colours in the circular middle, like koi fishes curling around themselves.

Now, it reminds Jongdae of Joonmyun.

“Why are you showing me this?” breathes Joonmyun, still transfixed by the sight. The waves are lapping up on the shore, the air freezing, but they do not feel the cold when they stand side by side. “I mean—“

“Because,” says Jongdae, and he can’t find the rest of the words. “Because.”

They stand there in silence, until Joonmyun breaks it, breaks whatever’s hanging between them, turns to Jongdae and hooks an arm around his shoulders and pulls him in to kiss him, soft and slow and warm. Joonmyun has become more forthcoming recently, less afraid to touch Jongdae, and it shows in the way that he now leisurely licks into Jongdae’s mouth, fingers tugging at the hair at Jongdae’s nape lightly, his other hand gripping Jongdae’s waist.

Jongdae wonders if this is just a side-effect of Drifting. Minds melding to become one functional unit, hearts melding through the rush of memories, twisting together to form the metaphorical red string that ties their fingers together.

Jongdae also wonders if this could be love.

But there is no time for love, in a time of war.

Especially not when it is so fragile and easily torn away, through the hand of a monster ripping into steel.

Jongdae holds Joonmyun close and kisses him again.

 

 

_The Kaiju are a race of amphibious creatures genetically engineered by the Precursors, a sentient race from the Anteverse. In 2013, the Precursors opened a portal between dimensions at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, allowing the Kaiju to enter Earth's dimension. As biological weapons of warfare, Kaiju are extremely hostile and toxic creatures designed with the intention to wipe out all humankind._

Another Category Three awaits, bubbling on the edge of the Breach, they say.

The scientists, Dr. Geiszler and Dr. Gottlieb have arrived in the Jeju-do Shatterdome by helicopter, and it is a real sight to see them at work, analysing the movements of the incoming Kaiju that sits and lies in wait. It is perhaps one of the biggest they will see in a while, they both say, in between yelling and bickering.

It frightens Jongdae, who stands in the back of the conference room, beside where Joonmyun has his arms crossed over his chest casually, but his hands in tight fists, reflecting the way Jongdae’s gut is squeezed into a knot, thinking about going up against that Kaiju, when the day comes.

_Kaiju are creatures of a highly toxic nature and have been categorized on the "Serizawa Scale". Each Kaiju is classified under five different categories. Categories I and II represent the weakest of the Kaiju, while Categories III through V are the strongest. The Serizawa Scale measures water displacement, toxicity and ambient radiation levels given off by their bodies when they pass through the breach. The fluid of a Kaiju is ammonia-based. Should they be killed in battle, their bodies are triggered to self-destruct immediately._

The two scientists do a detailed run-through for all those present, why the Kaiju do what they do, why they work as what they are, and a chill runs down Jongdae’s spine at the image of worlds-away puppeteers, strings dangling from their fingers, eyes glinting as their little monsters tear away at the lives of millions.

“You have to be prepared,” says Dr. Geiszler hurriedly, hands waving about in the air, and the tattoo sleeves on his arms catch the attention of the room, “because the next Category Three that rips out from the Breach will be bigger than any of the ones you’ve seen so far, and man, if you’re not ready, then no one will be.”

“We have done our predictions with as much accuracy as possible,” states Dr. Gottlieb in a mumbling tone, shaky hand adjusting his spectacles almost absently. “We are absolutely certain that the next Kaiju will be more evolved and more advanced than the rest of its kin.”

General Cho’s voice is subdued. “How many Jaegers will be required to take it down?”

“What is your current number?”

“Tacit Ronin, Mark-1,” says Dr. Lee, from the side, “Atlas Shift, Mark-3.”

“Radio for two more, General.” Dr. Gottlieb limps forward to press a finger to the data analysis before them, the holographic screen reshaping and reforming to show them statistics of the possible Kaiju attack. “You will require at least two more, Mark-3 if you can.”

General Cho nods. “We will signal the Hong Kong Shatterdome for assistance.”

The meeting is dismissed within the hour, and Jongdae finds himself almost in a trance as he walks. This has become all too real, now. Echo Sabre has been destroyed. Tacit Ronin on the brink of giving out. Two more Jaegers to be called in for this day.

How will they stand? Two young, new Rangers, barely out of their first fight, barely out of their wide-eyed innocence.

But then again, what innocence do they have left, indeed?

War spares none.

 

 

His footsteps are heavy, subdued even, as he tracks throught the corridors.

Jongdae returns to his room, and finds Kyungsoo there, hunched over his desk glancing through what seems to be the mental health folder of the latest batch of recruits. “Hey,” says Kyungsoo, closing the folder, watching Jongdae sit on Chanyeol’s bunk. “Confirmed?”

“Yes,” answers Jongdae, the words feeling thick in his throat, not wanting to come out. “We fight on the fortnight.”

The door clicks open on that note, and Baekhyun tumbles in, face ashen, murmuring to himself unintelligible words. Then, he catches sight of Jongdae, and immediately his face twists up. “I heard,” says Baekhyun, “largest Category III since ever. I’m going to be on the bridge for the mission too.”

“That’s good,” says Jongdae, “a familiar voice.”

Baekhyun launches himself at Jongdae, and presses his face against Jongdae’s shoulder. “Hey man,” he says, voice cracking, “come out of there alright, okay? I didn’t make friends with you just so you could up and leave.”

“And you’re the only one who can handle Chanyeol on his worst days,” adds Kyungsoo lightly, but the little shiver in his words tells all.

Chanyeol chooses that moment to pop his head through the door, and he’s got his patented grin on, and a bit of gunk on his cheek. “Heard my name,” says Chanyeol, and he sits on Jongdae’s bunk beside the desk. “Is this some kind of teary repeat of Jongdae’s first fight?”

“I’m not crying,” shoots back Baekhyun, but he sniffs anyway. “I’m just having a chemical reaction to how ugly your face is.”

Jongdae can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him, and even Kyungsoo snorts.

“Hey,” says Chanyeol, “just look at us all now. Our little Jongdae, off to fight in the big leagues. I heard they’re pulling in Gipsy Danger too. Fighting alongside the legendary Beckett brothers, check that out.”

“And don’t forget Baekhyun,” adds Kyungsoo, “finally doing some actual work for the first time in his life.” He ignores the ‘ _hey!_ ’ that comes from Baekhyun, and continues, “his first actual mission control job.”

Baekhyun smiles, though it’s slow to rise. “And Chanyeol here on the brink of a major Kaiju discovery.”

“Really though,” starts Chanyeol excitedly, “Dr. Lee and I have been researching what it is with Kaiju and water, and we might have found it! You see, they’re working a lot like nuclear reactors, to moderate and control their atomic processes—“

Jongdae reaches over and places his hand on Chanyeol’s mouth, silencing his babbling. “As much as we’d love to hear about it,” says Jongdae, “I’m about eighty percent sure that whatever you say will just end up flying over our heads.”

“Hey, Kyungsoo,” says Baekhyun, “tell them about the thing.”

“What thing?”

Kyungsoo leans back against the desk, and smiles. “I passed. Officially a Psych Analyst, now.”

“Not bad, not bad.” The mood in the room has definitely lightened now, and Jongdae is grateful for that. Grateful for them. He can’t imagine going through the past year or so without them. His heart aches at the thought of anything happening to them, and he steels himself.

No.

He can prevent that, now. He has the power to go out there and stop the monsters in their tracks, to stop them from hurting the people he cares about. If he could have only done that sooner… but the past is the past, now.

The Drift will not take them as early as this, not when Jongdae can do something about this.

And if it means going out there to stare Death right in the face, he will.

Baekhyun’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and Kyungsoo’s voice jerks him out of his thoughts abruptly. “Jongdae,” he says, and Jongdae glances up, and he’s never seen Kyungsoo look like that before, “all the best. Make us proud.”

“Yeah,” says Jongdae, “yeah, I will.”

 

 

Jongdae goes to sleep that night, remembering the days that have now passed.

He lets his eyes shut, lets himself fade back into old memories, lets himself fall back into that day.

Jongdae lets himself let go.

 

 

Twelve years old, he sits, in the back of the audience.

He watches intently, listens intently, the sound of the _buk_ echoing through the hall, the sound of his mother’s voice streaming through amidst the instruments that play, her voice stronger than all the others, rising, rising, rising and arching through the sounds, clear as a spring lake, like the rush of a summer wind, and dropping again, soft and falling, like the rustle of an autumn leaf, like the drift of winter snow.

Growing up in a family of traditional musicians, Jongdae imagines himself to be on that stage one day. His own voice, loud and crying, a reflection of the stories told, and inherited from generations old. His own hands maybe, against the thick skin of a drum. His own fingers, perhaps, whittling away at the strings of a beautiful _gayageum_ , much like his older brother does now.

Her voice sharpens, rises, but something happens.

Something overpowers her voice with its own.

It is not human.

Suddenly, there are screams and shouts and the trampling of feet. Jongdae slips off his chair, shuffles into the corner, and hides his face in his little hands, scared, scared, scared, so scared, what is he going to do _what am I going to do mommy mommy mommy where are you_ —

Someone lifts him from his hiding spot, drags him along by the arm and rushes for safety, as the roaring noise overhead comes again. It’s a monster, thinks Jongdae, clutching at the clothes of whoever is carrying him away, a giant monster attacking the city.

The crowd swamps them, and suddenly, Jongdae’s arm is dropped, and he falls to the ground, shouting out. The person holding onto him has disappeared. He glances around, and his entire family has disappeared into the throng of people.

If he listens hard enough, he can maybe hear the voice of his father, bellowing his name.

But then it is lost again, in the loud screech and devastating stomp of the monster that comes charging around the corner, big and ugly and heavy and frightening, and Jongdae scrambles up, scrambles for safety, as fast as his feet can take him.

“Dad,” he cries, pushing past the people, tripping over feet and searching for anyone, just anyone familiar, where is he now? Where has he even gotten to? “Mom, Dad, Jongdeok!”

The monster drags its feet along the roads, taking along with it cars, buildings, people. Jongdae’s breath catches high in his throat when it bellows along the street that he is on, and he runs faster, faster, _faster_.

He manages to find shelter by a building, huddled along with several other people, and he can’t stop the terror that courses through his blood when the monster approaches outside, and its tail sways to crush through the buildings in the surrounding area.

Then, the other giants come.

It feels like hours later when Jongdae finally creeps out of the wreckage, legs shaking, hands trembling, clothes torn and face streaked with dust. He doesn’t need to glance around to know that his family is nowhere in sight, his father and mother and brother disappeared, and he just hopes, and he just prays, with all the strength that’s left in him, with all the strength that’s keeping his knees up, that they are not part of the dark red that stains the roads now.

“What’s your name, boy?” asks the officer who gathers them up, “boy, where are you from?”

 _Siheung_ , rings the name in Jongdae’s head, _my name is Kim Jongdae and I am from Siheung, Gyeonggi-do, and I am looking for my family please tell me you have seen them please please please please don’t let them be dead please let them be alive and well and waiting for me and please let them be here._

(It is only much later when Jongdae finally returns to his home, to gather whatever he can, to gather whatever is left, to find whoever might be left; all he finds is a single photograph.)

But all Jongdae croaks out is, “What was that?”

The man’s hand tightens on his shoulder, as he ushers Jongdae to the safehouse. “Kaiju,” is all he says, and that word is all Jongdae knows, as the days come and go, as the weeks pass, and there is no word, no sight of them.

_Kaiju._

A full moon passes before Jongdae realises that the answer to his question was something else entirely.

_Jaeger._

And now, that is the word he holds onto.

And now, that is the one thing he knows he must do.

And now, Kim Jongdae knows what he must do.

 

 

Jongdae wakes up in a cold sweat, hands curling and unfurling into the sheets.

The sounds now twist together in his mind—first the music, then the roar, then the screams.

But the night is quiet, and the night is still here, and Jongdae does not wake alone, for he reaches for the photo stuck haphazardly to the side of the wall, and instead, finds Joonmyun’s hand instead, warm palm grasping his in a motion that soothes the ache down to his bones.

They are not here.

But Joonmyun is, now.

And Jongdae returns to sleep, Joonmyun’s arm slung low over his hip, the warmth of his mouth presses against the back of his neck sending comfort through his spine, the knowledge that Joonmyun will be here for him bringing him peace of mind.

The sharp sounds break apart, float into a soft rhythm that flows like the bubbling of a creek. The voices die down, and they linger only on the surface of his mind. The drum that slams, it now softens and rolls, rumbling like thunder miles away in the distance, but like the storm that leaves, and not the storm that comes.

Jongdae sleeps, and dreams of them no more, but dreams of tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow..

 

 

_Today._

Jongdae leans against the railing, glancing out towards the horizon. The sun is coming up. Neither of them have slept. Neither of them need to. The fight is coming, the fight is here, and the adrenaline that speeds through their veins licks at them like battery acid set on fire.

_Today, at the edge of our hope—_

“Hey,” says Joonmyun first. He doesn’t look at Jongdae, but his hand slides across the metal rail, and cautiously bumps against the side of Jongdae’s own hand. Jongdae hesitates, but then curls his little finger over Joonmyun’s own. “It’s the day.”

_—at the end of our time—_

“It is,” agrees Jongdae, and he watches the sun float higher, until it hurts to watch, until the light that streams across the compoud reflects off everything, making it look more beautiful that it is.

This is the precursor. This is the beginning of the end, the beginning of their end.

_—we have chosen not only to believe in ourselves—_

“Jongdae,” says Joonmyun, and it is a quiet, harsh breath that resounds, and it resounds deep inside Jongdae. He knows what is behind it. Now, he _knows_ Joonmyun. “If we don’t make it.”

“We will.” Jongdae turns to him, finally. There are dark circles under his eyes, but he stands tall, Joonmyun does. Joonmyun has always been strong. But Jongdae is the stronger of the two, and he presses his hands to Joonmyun’s face, thumbs over the corners of his lips, and whispers, “We will, Joonmyun. Believe me.”

Joonmyun shudders out an exhale, eyes closing, soft, like butterfly wings. Jongdae watches him breath, watches him take in the air like it’s his last day on earth. “Why,” the word slips from his lips, “why did it have to be you?”

Jongdae smiles, a crooked grin. “Would you have wanted anyone else?”

_—but in each other._

It is nearly time. The wake-up call blares in the distance, not that it is needed. He imagines the voices echoing in the main building, footsteps ringing out. Motion and hustle and bustle awakening.

Jongdae does not kiss him. He does not want to make this seem like a farewell. Because it isn’t. There will be no farewell. They will survive. They will be alive.

_Today—_

Joonmyun’s hands come up to draw him in, to pull him close, until they’re so close together, the previous gap between them reduced to nothing but the breath that escapes their lungs and the bumping glances they exchange. Today, they will become one again.

_—there is not a man nor woman in here that shall stand alone._

“You,” says Joonmyun, and he tilts his head, nudging their noses together. It is so intimate, so very intimate, but it feels like home. Comfort. Just them. Their mouths never meet. It is just hands on shoulders, fingers curled into hair, knees knocking and the soft caress of a sigh against another. “I trust you, Jongdae. More than anyone I’ve ever known in my life.”

_Not today._

Something in Jongdae swells. It might be the music that lives on in him. It might be the knowledge that they might die today. It might be love.

But he is ready, now.

_Today, we face the monsters that are at our door—_

“Come on,” says Jongdae softly, extracting himself from Joonmyun. He has to hold back from reaching out to hold his hand. “We should head to LOCCENT now.”

Joonmyun straightens up, sets his shoulders back, and nods. There is a tremble to him that Jongdae can see, an undercurrent in the base of his neck. But Joonmyun looks past it. Joonmyun holds himself in a way Jongdae never can. But Joonmyun can never let go of it.

This is where they are balanced, equal. This is where they make themselves whole.

— _and bring the fight to them._

They trudge back down the structure, back down through the hallways, making their way quietly back to their dorms to dress, before meeting again in the corridors leading to the main LOCCENT bridge. They walk side by side, and it feels like they are the only two there, despite the scurry of the officers around them, despite the way they are looking at the two of them with some strange profound emotion in their eyes.

Knowing that they will not be sacrificing their lives today.

Knowing that Jongdae and Joonmyun will be, instead.

_Today—_

They stand at the door, about to go in.

Jongdae glances over at Joonmyun, and smiles.

Joonmyun nods back, and his smile is softer, barely noticeable, but it is there.

So much has changed in such a short time.

They have grown.

They have wisened with the war.

They have become what they have longed to become.

Now, they face the fight. They face the hope of thousands, cast upon their shoulders. They face themselves, and the belief in each other, and the looping track that runs in them, the one that sings of desire and courage and loss and love.

_—we are cancelling the apocalypse._

“Will you open the door, now?”

Joonmyun takes a step, and pushes it forward.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. much of the information on kaiju and jaegers and the universe itself has been taken from the [pacific rim wiki](http://pacificrim.wikia.com/wiki/Pacific_Rim_Wiki), including the italicized information towards the end and the speech that is originally said by stacker pentecost in the film.  
> 2\. [the four major chinese weapons.](http://plumblossom.net/Articles/Inside_Kung-Fu/Nov2007/) gun has been substituted with [bang](https://www.shenyunperformingarts.org/learn/article/read/item/jLFSbFxI4o4/chinese-bang-staff.html), but carries the same meaning nonetheless.  
> 3\. quotes regarding mythology of atlas have been taken from [various epics and poems.](http://www.theoi.com/Titan/TitanAtlas.html)  
> 4\. [traditional korean instruments](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Traditional_Korean_musical_instruments) in more detail  
> 5\. the bible verse that jongdae quotes is [deuteronomy 32:35.](http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Deuteronomy+32%3A35&version=ESV)  
> 6\. the little snippet of kaiju biology that chanyeol mentions is [part of a full study](http://www.angelfire.com/ego/g_saga/kaijubiologyarticle.html), if interested.


End file.
